He sleeps.
At last the calls have died.
Winter
I'd forgotten about
your gifts.
The cries of anguish
a weary mouth
afraid to breathe
lest more vomit leave
that pillow putrid heave.
Frightened eyes
filled with query
beg me to stop this
unseen ghoul from
tearing his stomach
cruelly once again.
Mountains of rancid
food-drenched
foul-stenched linen
spillage and goo
lining the halls and stairs.
A late night hum and whirr
of the machine
with white and amber bedclothes
swathed over furniture
soaking illness
through its pressed sheathes.

In the quiet
a frightened gazelle
I poise for the next cough.

Sonja Broderick

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spillage-and-goo/